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Tuesday, June 11, 2013

It is warm here.

6/7/13

You all got up before me today, as you have done all week.
It’s the first week of summer, and I am tired. I sat on the couch with my
coffee, and this morning, it was Seth who got to me first. Seth, of all the
children the most independent, the least likely to need his mom. Seth,
snuggling in to me, resting on me in a way that will disappear when he is
grown. Lately I have caught glimpses of that day, that grown-up day, in his eyes, in our mature conversations. But on this morning, he relaxed in to me, and I put my arm on
his pajama’d leg.

It is not so often that we snuggle like this, you and me.
Today, I can see the young man you are becoming, and I know this moment is
fleeting. Is this an exception, this moment of need, this moment where you
welcome my embrace? Or have you simply played the role of the big brother, and
played it well? Have you moved aside, and allowed my lap to be taken by the
younger ones?

But it is not taken now, and I do not dare move, even though
my coffee is gone. “Mama, put your arm back on my leg. It’s warm when you do
that,” you say, and I do. It is warm
here.

I consider your hair, and the size of your feet. I consider
the God who made you, wanting warmth on this unusual day, and the God who made
me, wanting to give it.